


Flag on the play

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [25]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fooling around in lieu of fighting over football, M/M, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celegorm and Oromë have strong opinions while watching sports; they also have short attention spans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flag on the play

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Not really sure when this falls, but putting it next in the series seems about right. Since it affects plot not at all, I'm making the executive decision that it doesn't matter.

The game went to commercial break, and Celegorm muted the TV, grinning at Oromë. 

“That quarterback of yours is  _eating_  it.” 

Oromë grunted. “He’s just a cerebral player. He’ll bounce back.” 

“ _Cerebral_ , please. All that means is that as soon as he starts to lose he gets all in his head about it and starts to suck even more. Losing should inspire rage, man, not moping and self-reflection. I never wasted any time with that bullshit.” 

“Well,” said Oromë, leaning back against the couch, “no one could ever accuse you of being a cerebral player.” 

“Yo, you throwing shade, Coach?” Celegorm tossed a handful of popcorn at Oromë, who ducked. 

“I’m not familiar with your hipster lingo,” said Oromë innocently. “But if you’re suggesting that I’m insinuating you play less with your head than with your – ” 

“How dare you?” said Celegorm in mock outrage. “I quit college football for you, you son of a bitch.” 

“You got thrown out of college football,” said Oromë, and held up a pillow as a buffer as Celegorm threw more popcorn at him. “You antagonized your coaches to the point of expelling you from practice five times in a row. You didn’t make it two weeks into your freshman year.” 

“And you saw all that, and instead of saying, ‘oh look, a crazy mofo’, you said, ‘I better get that fine piece of ass on my team’.” 

“Pretty much,” said Oromë. “Because I saw potential, if not,” and he lobbed the pillow at Celegorm, “a particularly cerebral player.” 

“Asshole,” muttered Celegorm, wriggling down against the arm of the couch and putting his feet in Oromë’s lap. “You don’t even know how much you lucked out getting me.” 

“Too true. Game’s back, turn it up.” 

They watched in silence for a while, Oromë absently rubbing the arches of Celegorm’s feet. They both straightened up, though, as play picked up, and both let out exclamations – Celegorm’s delighted, Oromë’s disbelieving – as the ball went into the end zone.

“Absolutely  _not_.” 

“Absofuckinlutely, are you kidding?” 

“Hush, they’re going to call it.” 

They waited for the call, and then Oromë sank back on the couch with a groan.

“Hah!” Celegorm raised his arms triumphantly. “Suck it, I  _told_  you that was good!” 

“There’s no way. That was clearly a dropped pass. These calls have been pretty blatantly biased towards the home team, I’m starting to wonder – ” 

“You’re a paranoid curmudgeon,” said Celegorm blithely. “It was perfectly fair call. Maybe if you had your reading glasses on when they were doing the instant replay, you would have seen what me ‘n’ the refs saw.” 

Oromë narrowed his eyes at Celegorm, who was grinning at him. “Is that another joke about my age?” 

“Naw, never. I think you’re pretty cute in your reading specs, babe. And maybe they’d help you discern an  _obviously_  clean play that was  _well-perceived_  and  _accurately called_.” 

“Accurate, my ass,” growled Oromë. “You’re all too quick to call out bias when it’s against your team, but as soon as it’s in your favor – ” 

“Shut up and take the hit, old man. You and your cerebral-ass quarterback…” 

“That’s it,” said Oromë. He wrapped his hands around Celegorm’s ankles and tugged until Celegorm was sprawled across his lap, disheveled and laughing. 

“C’mon, I’m trying to watch the game!” 

“Tough.” 

“What if I miss something important?” 

“You’re up by twenty points,” Oromë pointed out, sliding a hand under Celegorm’s shirt.

“Yeah, but I wanted to savor all the details of your defeat –  _oh_ , shit.” He gasped, and Oromë’s eyes sparkled.

“What was that?” 

“Nothin’, oh fuck, do that again – ” 

“I thought you wanted to pay attention to the game,” said Oromë, seriously, even as he pulled Celegorm to kneel over his lap.

“Fuck the game. Fuck me instead.” 

“You switch gears very quickly, has anyone ever told you that?” 

Celegorm dug his fingers into Oromë’s braids and kissed him hard. “My team’s up at the half, and so am I. That means you owe me a halftime quickie.” 

“Those are the rules, hm?” murmured Oromë, slipping Celegorm’s jeans down over his hips. “And if I, say, go down on you until the next commercial break, will you admit that was a horribly biased call that deserves to be thrown out?” 

“Never,” said Celegorm, and then swore as Oromë bent over him. “ _Jesus_. Okay, maybe if you keep doing that thing with your tongue.” 

“You’re as easily bought as those referees,” said Oromë, and laughed as Celegorm pulled his hair in retribution. 


End file.
